


at the round earth's imagin'd corners

by lanyon



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dagor Dagorath, Gen, Modern Setting, War wounds, loss of body parts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:25:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2330144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the night before the Dagor Dagorath and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, aside from the Finweans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	at the round earth's imagin'd corners

**Author's Note:**

> +Thanks, as always, to Laura, Martha, Chelle, Chelsey, Candis and more. Thanks for the memories.  
> +Another 1k word story because I like the challenge.

There is a thrill in the air, a chill in the air. There has been for decades. It’s like the night before Tarnin Austa (the blood-sodden one; not the ones before). 

All Quendi are dangerous, even sweet Nimloth, who does not like the way Gil-galad looks at her husband. Noldor are not to be trusted around pretty things, even though Dior is no longer beautiful. There are so many scars, from his time held captive by Orcs, and now he is almost as mechanical as they are. 

The anger in his eyes is beautiful, though, and perhaps that’s what draws the ex-High King to him, like a moth to a glittering flame. 

What is the plural for High King, anyway? 

A rescue, perhaps. 

Dior’s heartbeat is a click, from metal valves, and his left leg is prosthetic, and he is fearsome indeed. He was found when he was dying and now his fëa burns the brighter. It burns the brightest, like Maedhros and Glorfindel, for whom near-death experiences are the matter of an afternoon (and not near enough, for Dior’s liking).

.

“I don’t like the way you look at Nimloth’s husband,” says Fingon.

“I don’t like the way you look at your cousin,” says Ereinion.

“Glass houses,” says Fingolfin, in his skyscraper of chrome and, yes, glass, looming over the city, like Ringil or a rude gesture. He waves his hand. “Stones.” 

“Really, Father?” asks Turgon. “In this day of assault rifles, you’re talking about stones?”

“Sometimes, it’s the simple things,” says Fingolfin. His gaze is distant, perhaps so far as the Lórien chapter of the First Wives’ Club, where Míriel still lies in repose and office hours are alternate Thursdays, between noon and two o’clock.

“Sometimes, it’s biblical,” says Fingon, making eyes at Maedhros, who is here by the grace of Fingolfin. 

.

All Quendi are dangerous. Aredhel walks catwalks in New York, Milan, Tokyo and Paris. She is never without a pair of stilettos. 

“She walks in beauty like the night,” says Eöl.

“Such a hack,” says Celegorm. “Not a drop of poetry in his veins. Just blood.” 

“Lots of it,” says Curufin. His smile is sharp, like Aredhel’s stilettos. 

.

There are dragons and splicing of genes and aviation fuel. Vingilot has more scorch marks than ever before. The side of Eärendil’s face is scarred and Tilion doggedly pursues Arien who laughs in the face of immolation. 

“Is that all you’ve got?” 

Tilion and Eärendil compare war wounds and all is fair in love and war.

“What light through yonder window breaks?” breathes Tilion, resting an ice cold bottle of water against his cheek. “It is the east and there’s glass bloody everywhere.”

.

All Quendi are dangerous. Celebrían sits with her friends in a yarn store in Toronto. There is garotte wire in her knitting bag because never again; never again will she be at the mercy of anyone or anything. 

Elrond feels the safer when she walks him home at night. 

.

This expulsion of Quendi from Námo’s hallowed halls heralds the end of the world. Telimektar strides across the heavens, with Ingil in hot pursuit, and the world implodes slowly.

There is a thrill in the air. Someone is holding his breath and it has been Ages since his last. They say he will return and when he does, there’ll be hell to pay. 

Mortals don’t understand it, of course. They don’t understand why Quendi are so eager to fight. 

“Have you not met a Quendë?” And, no, sweet Nandor don’t count. They are more like fairy tales, hiding in what’s left of the world’s forests.

When Arda dies, so do the Quendi. Everyone knows it. Every mortal who has fought in a battalion alongside them knows that the very existence of Quendi is sewn into Arda’s fabric, a standard of blood and glitter and contempt.

So the world is ending but it’s ending on their terms. 

.

The saddest song is that of Amillo, whose Music is so entwined with that of Arda and the oceans, that he will go the way of the Quendi.

They say he fell in love with a mariner; one of Eärendil’s companions. 

He will go the way of the Quendi, in the stead of Lúthien, who danced her way after Beren, or Arwen, who lay down, and dust to dust and so on and so forth and maybe they were the lucky ones. 

Then again, Eru has always had an odd sense of humour. 

.

Ecthelion hates water and Glorfindel hates the dark and these are such mortal fears for immortal warriors. They both carry swords, and knives, and sawn-off shotguns. 

Ecthelion plays the piano like an angel, if angels ever existed. Glorfindel puts the heart across him, balancing on water towers, for the view. 

“You don’t have to count down to detonation,” he says. “And not from so close.”

“But I do,” says Glorfindel, smiling bright like his hair, which cut short now, for safety, if not for vanity. Water gushes into munitions factories and dragon’s lairs and Orc hatcheries. 

“D’you think there’s such a thing as a free-range Orc?” asks Glorfindel, rather dreamily. 

“I think the Dark Lord is strictly into battery farms,” says Ecthelion. “Alpha unit, take your positions.”

“They look like drowned rats,” says Glorfindel. 

“Rather them than me,” says Ecthelion, grim and unsmiling. “Strike Team Bravo going in.”

Ecthelion might not be a warrior at heart but he’s damn good at it and Orcs still fear his name.

.

It’s coming, like Tarnin Austa and all that blood and betrayal. It’s coming and it will make the Nirnaeth Arnoediad seem like a mild misunderstanding. There will be tears enough to put Nienna out of business. 

.

It’s all fun and games till someone loses an eye. Ereinion grins broadly. 

“Now tell me I’m looking at Dior funny,” he says. “I dare you to make fun of the guy with the eye-patch.”

“At the rate you’re going,” says Fingon, “you’ll make one passable Quendë.” 

.

“Well. It looks like Daddy’s come home.”


End file.
